


Winter is coming and so is Muriel, I guess.

by KaneCorp



Series: Muriel deserves affection [2]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Gender Neutral MC - Freeform, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Other, Praise Kink, Smut, Vaginal Sex, afab mc, he does pull out tho no creampies here, he's a forest man in a fantasy village they don't have condoms, meet his chickens and then say hi to his cock, more gift giving, porn with plot kinda, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 04:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12904059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaneCorp/pseuds/KaneCorp
Summary: You made him another sweater, but Muriel hasn't shown up for you to give it to him. You get worried over the fact he's missing, so you trek into the woods to check on him.or: i wanted an excuse to get physical with muriel and it got way too convoluted, my dudes





	Winter is coming and so is Muriel, I guess.

**Author's Note:**

> so!! this was supposed to be short, and it did not end up that way. it's a direct continuation to Sweater Weather, but you don't need to have read that one, i suppose
> 
> also i'm aware that muriel is 5x more likely to just go "ok cool, this is your house now" and just leave rather than invite mc in, let alone do the nasty but l i s t e n guys. i had to.
> 
> dedicated to Gisela at gonnaslapaboo.tumblr.com and the rest of the arcana discord for supporting me thru this, please check out gisela's arcana artwork at her blogs monsterlordgarou.tumblr.com and loafdog.tumblr.com!!

You’re making another one. You can’t really believe yourself, honestly. Not that you’re making another sweater, no, but the fact that the yarn you chose to use this time is a deep verdant hue. When you saw the wool in the market your first thought had been that it was the same shade as his eyes, and you had purchased skein upon skein with no further thought. Now you find yourself in the home you shared with Asra, knitting together another ridiculously sized sweater, thinking of Muriel’s eyes and the smile he showed you a week ago in an empty alley. You find yourself smiling at your hands more than once as you work, and Asra gave you a knowing look as he set a fresh cup of tea at your side. Blessedly he didn’t say anything, waving off your thanks with a quirk of his lips before leaving you alone with your project.

It’s easier to make the sweater this time, since you have a better idea of what the dimensions should be. Last time the torso had been a bit too long, adding to that cream monstrosity’s ridiculous appearance. You adjusted your stitches accordingly for this one, and you decided to do something different with the sleeves, leaving them a uniform width until about 3 inches above the wrist, where it flares out wide. There wasn’t much you could change about the collar, so it’s still wide and pooling, but hopefully the change to the sleeves will help it look less… sorcerous when he wears it.

You’ve been working on this sweater the past week, hoping to give it to him on the next day he comes into the city. There were a few times you worried if it’d seem too pushy or forward, giving him two handmade sweaters in about as many weeks, but then you thought that what if he really only had the one shirt? It couldn’t hurt to give him a second one, right? Like that, the moment of insecurity would pass and you’d commit yourself to finishing what you’d already started. There was still a few days before Muriel should need to buy supplies again, and you spend them as any other, doing your duties around the shop and spending free time finishing your gift.

* * *

 

The day Muriel should have been in town came and passed. You’ve gone to the markets for the past three days hoping to find him, but each time he wasn’t there. You even asked the one vendor you could remember managing to catch him buying goods from if he’d been by, but she said she hadn’t seen him. You’re starting to get worried. Well, you’re always worried, about him at least, but now you’re worrying more. Winter hasn’t hit in full yet, but the nights are getting steadily colder and there had been that awful downpour a few days ago… You wonder if he got caught in the cold rain, or if his home had leaks or drafts, maybe he could have gotten sick? Cold weather doesn’t necessarily make someone more likely to get sick, but you know that the cold and wet certainly don’t help with respiratory problems. What if he’d caught pneumonia because he’d been wearing the sweater you gave him when the rain started, and the dense wool had soaked through, leaving him a sad, cold mess? Oh God, what if he actually was at home, sick with pneumonia all because of a gift you gave him?!

You stop on your path home for a moment, shaking your head. Those are ridiculous thoughts, he seemed perfectly healthy when you last saw him so he shouldn’t be that easy to take down. Yet… The thought still bothered you. Your feet started moving again, weaving among the people in the streets absently while your mind wandered. Even if it wasn’t likely that he was ill, the fact still remained that it’s days past when he would normally resupply. Maybe you shouldn’t worry so much, but you can’t help it when it comes to Muriel, and now that he’s missing, you just worry more.

Maybe you could visit him? You don’t think he really has anyone else to worry for him (that thought alone causes a nasty twist in your guts), so maybe you should be the one to check on him. You don’t actually know where he lives though, and that makes going to see him a little more complicated. You also get the distinct feeling that he values his relative seclusion, and having you show up unannounced might not really be appreciated. Your thoughts turn like this for the last few minutes it takes for you to return home, feet at the worn doorstep and the weathered shop sign hanging over head.

A troubled sigh passes your lips as you pull open the wooden door to your home and place of business, slipping into the lit interior where you spot several items left out on the counter. It looks like Asra must have made himself a snack and forgotten it, because there’s a half-eaten sandwich and a lukewarm mug of tea, the handle of which Faust is currently twining her tail around as she raises her head onto the plate with the sandwich. You put your thoughts on hold as you hurry over to the counter, gently pulling the plate away from her reach before she can make a mess. Faust follows the plate as you move it, and it would be cute if it weren’t for the fact that the last time she got into a sandwich she tracked mustard across half the shelves of your more prized tomes before either of you could catch her.

You gently push her away with your hand, lifting along her underbelly so she can’t resist, and place the sandwich on the table out of her immediate reach. With the plate moved, she turns instead to coiling herself around the mug while watching you, and you wonder for a moment if you should ask her for advice. Faust is a remarkable listener, after all, although her responses do tend to be kind of lacking. Or severely lacking, considering she doesn’t respond at all. Before your mind can wander any further down the proverbial rabbit trail, motion from the entrance of your shared bedroom catches your eye.

Asra moves the curtains aside as he moves through the doorway, catching sight of you as he enters the main room fully, a mustard-stained tome under his arm. “Ah, you’re back,” his voice is light as he welcomes you home, “Did you find what you went out to look for?” His eyes are kind, but that smile is bordering on teasing. You pout a little, because you didn’t find what (who) you were looking for, but you don’t know how to tell Asra that without spilling the metaphorical beans. He takes your silence as an answer and continues, “Judging by your expression, I’m guessing you didn’t. Is there anything I could do to help?” He sounds genuine in his offer for help, but what can you say? ‘Why yes, Asra, you could help me find the homestead of a strange and large standoffish man somewhere in the untamed wilds outside the city, because I think I may have accidentally killed him through good will.’?

You decide instead to be slightly more vague with what you actually say. “No, I didn’t,” you start, “I don’t think I’ll find it in the city.” You give a sigh, looking almost defeated, “I think I’ll have to go out to look for it myself. Can you help me put a pack together for a hike?” Asra’s expression is sympathetic as he nods his head and sets his book on the counter, near the mug of forgotten tea.

You gather items to bring with you with Asra’s help. It’s mostly fruits for snacks and a jug of water, with a few medicinal items just in case. He rediscovered the sandwich you’d moved to the table, and ate it despite your concern of exactly how long he’d left it there, waving you off and chewing contentedly while you made space for your things in your bag. If he saw the sweater you’d folded as best you could, he didn’t say anything. That was probably for the best, your own scrutiny was already enough to make you want to reconsider, let alone if somebody else questioned you.

Maybe this really isn’t the best idea. You know there’s so many ways this could backfire, but you can’t stand not knowing if Muriel is ok; there’s no way you can convince yourself to relax, not after you’ve imagined the worst case scenario. You steel yourself for your woodland trek, satchel slung over your shoulders and hand on the door. As you push the old wood open, Asra speaks up. “By the way,” he starts, and you can see a mischievous glint in his eyes as he continues, “tell him I said hello.” With that, he gives you a parting wave, watching the door swing closed behind you.

The door closes before you can respond, but it doesn’t stop you from blushing in embarrassment. Asra knows. You have no idea how he knows, but he knows, and honestly you’re not sure why you’re surprised. Part of you feels like it must be because you’re hopelessly obvious, but the rest of you chalks it up to the fact Asra tends to know things he shouldn’t anyways. There’s no time to waste with pondering Asra’s suspicious penchant for knowing things you think he shouldn’t, it’s past noon and you don’t really like the idea of being caught in the forests at sundown. Preferably you’ll have found Muriel by then, but there’s no way to tell exactly how long that will take, so you hurry your steps, making for the edge of town, burdened in equal parts by your luggage and the worry in your heart.

* * *

 

You’ve been walking for nearly two hours and the sun is getting threateningly low in the sky. Your plan was to slightly modify some dowsing methods so that you should be pointed towards a destination instead of water, but you’ve covered some considerable distance already and have yet to spot anything that looks like a home. It’s getting colder as the time passes and you’re surprised by how much quicker the air chills out here than in the city. Now you know you were right to give Muriel that sweater, but now you also know you should’ve brought something warmer for yourself. You’re lost in the woods on a wild goose chase for a mysterious mountain of a man as night approaches, sinking cold claws into your skin, and you’re beginning to think this may have been a bad idea after all.

It doesn’t take much longer before a sound catches your attention. It’s a little distant, and you aren’t sure you’re hearing right, but it sounds like… clucking? Are you hearing chickens? If there’s chickens, there’s a good chance they’re supposed to belong to somebody, and this far out in the wilds there’s a good chance that somebody is Muriel. Feeling a little renewed, you pull your arms tighter around yourself and start in the direction of the clucking. As you come closer, you can tell with certainty that the sound is indeed chickens making a ruckus, and you can even see the side of a rather squat building with what looks to be a chicken coop near it.

Someone obviously lives here, judging by the kept chickens and the small vegetable garden coming into view. Of course, there’s always the chance that this isn’t where Muriel lives, and instead you’ve just wandered onto the property of some other mountain hermit. The possibility of trespassing into a dangerous stranger’s home causes your steps to slow, but you continue. You haven’t much choice at this point, making the trip back to the city empty handed would be both long and disheartening, leaving you cold and despondent by the time you make it home. You don’t see many of the chickens milling about, most of them likely inside their coop keeping warm, and you don’t see any signs of a person being around either. Still, it’s best to be cautious.

Most of the trees here are evergreen, but the few that aren’t have left their browned leaves scattered near this house, leaving your steps to crackle slightly as you round the building. It’s… definitely small, looking at it closer. It’s short, with log walls and a sod roof, a crooked door and a filthy window the only portals to the inside. You think you might hear movement inside, but the grimy glass of the window doesn’t allow you to see much at all of the room beyond. You’re nervous, the sun is kissing the horizon, and your teeth are nearly chattering with cold. Just as you’re about to brave your chances, one chilled fist up to knock on the warped wood of the door, it opens, sending you stumbling back in surprise and a startled shout tumbling from your lips.

As you reel back, you find yourself faced with Muriel, perfectly well and stooped down with a container of grains in his hand, stepping through the doorway. Or trying to, at least. He stopped mid-stride, blinking owlishly at your surprised face, his jaw slack. It only lasts a moment before his expression changes. Now his mouth is set in a hard line as he finishes stepping past the door, letting it bang closed behind him. You wince at the sound, and at the hard stare he’s giving you. He’s definitely not happy to see you.

“What are you doing here,” the bassy rumble of his voice makes it sound like less of a question and more of a stern reprimand. He’s still looking at you so you do your best to compose yourself, but you’re feeling more like a fool than ever.

“I, well,” you’re already stumbling over your words, “you didn’t come into town when you normally do so I thought that maybe something had happened, so I, um, came to check on you.” Your hand is gripping the strap of your bag as you try to stubbornly return his stare, but you can feel yourself trembling under the weight of it. God, you wish you wouldn’t get so nervous all the time.

Muriel closes his eyes and you can see the concentrated effort he makes to relax his face before he heaves a sigh. His eyes open only for him to look past you, stepping around you and towards the chicken coop. His back is to you now as he says, “I’m fine. You should leave.” His tone is dismissive and cold, leaving the hairs on your neck to prickle while you watch him put what is apparently chicken feed around the coop and some inside near the nesting hens.

You clench your fists and try to breathe evenly. It stings to think you’ve messed up. You didn’t want to make him angry, you just wanted to be sure he was ok. Your arms wrap back around your chest as you watch him, and that’s when you notice he isn’t wearing the sweater you made him. That stings too. “I can’t help that I worry about you, you know,” it comes out almost petulant, like a child. “Besides, I don’t think it’s safe if I leave now, it’ll be night before I can even make it halfway to the city.”

Your breath is coming out in icy puffs and you start rubbing your arms, trying to keep warm. Muriel stands and looks to the horizon. You’re kind of amazed at how he can be outside in this chill without a shirt on. He let’s the silence sit for a moment before sighing again, “You’re right.” His voice is heavy and for a moment you think he’ll tell you to leave anyways, then he says, “You can stay until morning.” Your jaw drops, gaping at him as he turns back towards the door to the hut, mind reeling with the sudden accession to prolonged social contact.

You’ve only met him a few times, but it was enough for you to get the distinct feeling of exactly how much he values his privacy. “A-” you stutter, “are you sure?” You’re turning after him, following in his wake.

His hand is on the door when he looks over his shoulder at you to speak. “Do you have a better idea?” You don’t, so you say nothing, casting a sheepish look towards your feet.

Muriel pulls the door open, the wood creaking and groaning, then stands aside to let you enter. You’re starting to feel guilty. Not only was your worry unfounded, but now you’ve trespassed on his home and you’re even forcing him to shelter you for the night. You hesitate before entering, Muriel’s eyes following you calmly as he waits. Your lips feel chapped and cold when you speak, “I’m really sorry for this. I,” you clear your throat lightly, “I didn’t mean to make you upset.” You look up to his face, as high as the roof beside him even with his perpetual slouch.

He almost looks sad. The deep forest colour of his eyes is dim in the waning light, his mouth in an ever-present frown, and his head bowed low, hair falling messily around his face. You catch yourself staring into his eyes without realizing it. “I’m not upset,” he takes a short pause, “it’s just better for you if you aren’t around me.”

There’s a familiar twist in your stomach at that. You don’t know what he means by that, but you know that you don’t like it. “Muriel-” he cuts you off before you can even start.

“Please, come inside.” He motions gently with his free hand, urging you through the door. You obey reluctantly, stepping into the single room that makes up Muriel’s home. There’s a fireplace to one side, a warm flame already lit, and you curse yourself silently for not thinking to look for smoke when trying to find a house this close to winter. It’s cozy, you think, the small space dominated by the fireplace and a rugged bed frame against the opposite wall. The dirt floor in between has a worn rug to cover it, and the bed is piled with warm-looking furs. There aren’t many options for seating, so you stand near the fire to warm yourself, setting your bag down near your feet as Muriel enters behind you.

Muriel takes his cloak off and shakes it out before setting it down on a cluttered table, baring most of his chest to you once again. That reminds you, you don’t see the sweater you gave him anywhere in here… You speak up, “Hey, Muriel, it’s been cold today, why aren’t you wearing your sweater?” He nearly grimaces at your question, inciting worry in you yet again.

He sounds almost sheepish when he says, “There was an… incident.” He moves a few things around on the table, before pulling out his fancifully made cream sweater. There’s a long tear on the front, and parts of the sleeve unraveling where it had been cut too. He brings it closer to you so you can inspect it. “One of the hens got agitated, and she cut a few of the threads. I didn’t want it to unravel completely and I didn’t know if you could fix it, so I was waiting until I could bring it back to you.” Agitated? It looks like she tried to maul him!

You suppose you could fix it, the damage wasn’t too severe. It’d look odd in places, but it’d still be serviceable and you have the feeling that that’s what matters. That being said, you’re confronted with how close Muriel is at the moment. The room isn’t necessarily small, but Muriel is broad and it feels like he takes up most of the free space as he looms near you. Not that you didn’t know he was big before, it’s just you were never in quite as confined a space with him, and now you’re having to really acknowledge just how large he is. It’s flustering.

Tearing your eyes from where they’d strayed over his chest, you turn to your bag and crouch down, folding one sweater and retrieving the other. “I think I can fix it, so it should be fine. But!” you stand up, holding out the new sweater you made, “you’re lucky, because i brought you another one.” The way his eyes widen just a fraction before getting that slight bit warmer brings a smile to your face, and it stays there as he takes the fabric from your hands. He turns it over much like he had the first one, inspecting it before meeting your eyes with the barest hint of a smile gracing his lips.

“Thank you, again,” his voice is low as always, but in this space you can practically feel it rumble from his chest and it sends a shiver down your spine. You try not to think about it; imposing on your new friend’s goodwill is not the time for wondering at exactly how his steady presence and deep voice make you feel warm all the way down to your toes. Not that you  _actually_ feel warm, your skin is still clammy and your hands shake. You turn slightly more towards the warmth of the fire as Muriel obligingly pulls the sweater onto his arms.

The absence of most of the leather belts he usually wears leaves more of his skin open to your eyes than usual, your gaze tracing the dips of his abs, catching on the scars and following them up his chest. Your own face flushes in embarrassment when you realize you’ve been caught ogling, Muriel having stopped mid-motion to watch you. When your eyes meet he averts his stare, shifts uncomfortably on his feet, and finishes dressing. Even that small shift in his stance begs your attention, but you try to control yourself and keep your eyes elsewhere. It’s a difficult task.

You clear your throat softly. “That one should f-fit better, since I knew more of what I was aiming for this time,” mmm, yes, awkward conversation, made even worse by the fact that your teeth are chattering. How are you still so absurdly cold?

Muriel finishes pulling the hem down flat, mercifully hiding his tanned skin from view, but not before your eyes hone in on the trail of dark, wiry hairs leading to the waist of his pants. He didn’t notice it this time, but you admonish yourself all the same. He frowns down at you before saying, “You’re still cold.” It’s not much a question, but you nod anyways, turning more towards the fire as he shuffles off behind you. You can hear him across the room somewhere near the bed before he comes back. “Sit,” is all he says.

He’s holding the top-most fur from the pile on the bed in his hands, ready to drape it around your shoulders. You acquiesce, sitting lightly in front of the fire, pulling your knees to your chest and trying to still your shivering as he wraps the fur around you. It’s extremely large and rugged, with thick skin and thicker hair, and you want to laugh at the fact you were just swaddled in what’s presumably a bear skin blanket by an absolute bear of a man. You don’t laugh, but instead pull the hide closer around yourself and mumble a ‘thank you’ through your clattering teeth.

The packed dirt is hard under you, the threadbare rug doing little to cushion you, so you tuck the excess of the blanket under you to let the thick fur act as extra padding. Muriel walks softly to his bed and sits on the edge, the wood groaning under his weight.  You hold your hands out towards the fire, warming your fingers as you ask, “Why weren’t you in town this week?” It takes effort to suppress the chattering of your teeth while you talk, and you hope you aren’t shivering too visibly. You’re already indoors, in front of a fire, and wrapped in fur; being cold at this point feels utterly ridiculous, and yet you can’t help it. How has Muriel lived out here for so long without wearing a shirt??

His answer is exceedingly simple. “I didn’t need to be.”

You blink a couple of times. What? “Why not?”

“I didn’t need to buy anything.” That’s not much of an answer, Muriel.

“Wh- why not?” you repeat yourself.

“There was a sale last time. I bought extra.” He appears utterly nonplussed.

That’s reasonable, you guess? You make a humming noise and turn back to the fire. He just bought extra, that’s all. You got so worried, all over the fact that he’d gotten a good deal on groceries last time and didn’t need to restock. Now you feel immensely silly, but you don’t think you could have stopped yourself from worrying anyways. You’re starting to realize that maybe you care more than you should.

Muriel’s eyes are on you, watching you huddle under the blanket and tremble. You’re not looking, but his mouth pulls tight, lips pursing. When he speaks it startles you. “Do you want me to come over there?” His face is shadowed by the tangled fall of his hair, but in the dim light you think you see color rising to his cheeks. He’s not meeting your eyes, and you watch his throat work on a swallow before he clarifies, “To keep you warm, I mean.” Muriel actually turns his head a bit to the side when he finishes.

Your own face flushes, feeling hotter than the fire alone can make it. You can’t help but stutter when you reply, “Wh-why would you need to do that?” You’re not sure why he would suggest that, but you have to admit that even with everything else it’s still taking your body much longer to warm up than you’d like.

“It’ll be more efficient,” he sounds calm but his hands are in his lap, toying with the edges of his sleeves, and you barely catch the word ‘probably’ whispered under his breath. Is he… trying to make a move on you?

Your heart starts racing. You can’t exactly deny that you’d like to be more, er, physical with him, but you were trying play it at least a little bit cool. If Muriel’s going to offer more though, you’re not going to complain. You were already caught red-handed drooling over his muscles, after all. You try to keep your voice from sounding too hopeful when you speak, “If you don’t mind, that would be-,” you shift a little awkwardly, “it would be nice.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he rises slowly from the bed and takes the few steps he needs to to be at your back. He leans down, letting his hands come slowly into your peripheral before grabbing the edges of the bear skin. He’s delicate, his fingers barely graze you, but where they do your skin tingles. Muriel gently pulls the hide off of you, wrapping it around his own shoulders before he sits close behind you, a leg on either side. His chest makes contact with your back, the soft of the woolen sweater giving only to let you feel the barest press of his hard muscles. He pulls the fur around you both, wrapping his arms around you in the process, and you relax back into him at the feel of his strong arms around your shoulders.

He’s warm. He’s so warm, it feels like your back might burn where it touches his chest. You can feel his broad hands grip your shoulders as he settles in, placing his chin very nearly on top of your head with his ankles crossed in front of you. Your shivering slowly subsides in his embrace, the space under the blanket warming like a furnace. This is nice, you think, and you lean your head back into the bountiful flesh of his chest. He sighs somewhere over your head, and you can feel the exaggerated rise and resulting fall of his chest, the deep purr of his breathing soothing you.

You spend the next few moments in silence, listening to the crackle of the fire and the regular gusts of each other’s breaths. Once all the feeling has come back to your fingers and toes the stillness becomes unbearable, your urge to do _something_ making your hands itch. You speak quietly, afraid to ruin the moment, “Muriel?” You raise your hands slowly, letting your fingers hover over the breadth of his arms, “Is it okay if I,” you swallow, “touch you?”

He breathes in deep, his words coming out in a rush of warm air, “If you want to.” And you do. You really do. So you let your hands touch, at first just his arms, pressing at the muscle through the wool. You’re gentle, slow, wary of scaring him or overstepping boundaries. He breathes steadily behind you and you can feel his arms tense every now and then at your touch before relaxing. You begin smoothing your hands along his arms, soothing him as best you can.

Muriel doesn’t move, letting you feel him as you like. Your head is still relaxed back against his breast, and you can feel the thumping of his heartbeat on the back of your skull, the pace slowly increasing. From this position there isn’t much more of him you can reach beyond the biceps, so you let a hand drift down to one of his thighs where they’re wrapped around you. You go slowly, letting him watch your movements and giving him a chance to object. He doesn’t. Your hand lands as close to his knee as you can manage, wanting to start small. Carefully, you stroke along the outside of his thigh, dragging your nails over the fabric of his pants.

Your hand continues upward until it finds purchase on the thick trunk of his thigh, beginning to massage into the hard muscle you feel there, your other still caressing his bicep. Muriel’s breathing falters for a moment, and he shifts around you. He relaxes the embrace of his arms, letting his hands fall down to your sides to grip loosely, before leaning more forward, causing the muscle in his thigh to jump as he counterbalances. It’s absolutely delightful.

Your own breath is coming harsher, excitement starting to gather low in your stomach. He’s quiet, but you can feel reaction from him, especially when you bring your hand close to where his thigh meets hip, pressing down and inwards until it slides dangerously close to his clothed sex. He breathes out hard through his nose at that, his fingers tightening slightly where they rest against your waist. You love seeing his reactions like this, but you want more.

You carefully pull yourself forward, just enough to start turning around to face him. He makes a small, confused sound when you start to move, but he doesn’t object, just let’s you lean out of his arms and shuffle around in the small space between his legs. It’s almost overwhelming, being this close to him, seeing the colour rise on his cheeks as you reach your hands up to cup his face. Your fingernails scratch through the scruff of his beard, your thumbs rubbing over his cheeks as you look into his eyes. “Is this ok?”

Muriel looks away and bites the inside of his lip, taking a moment before nodding once. You smile at the cute display before leaning up onto your knees, letting your breath ghost over his lips. You can feel his shuddering exhale against your own mouth before you let your eyelids slip shut, moving forward that fraction of an inch further to seal your lips on his. They’re chapped, dry, and plump, and you love them. You kiss him softly at first, massaging your fingertips along his jawline as he relaxes into it before sliding a hand to the base of his skull, lightly playing with the hair there. His own hands come back to rest tentatively against your hips, the broad expanse of his palms warm against your skin through your clothes. The longer you kiss the surer his grip becomes, until he’s holding you properly, even pulling slightly to urge you closer. You oblige him, of course.

Kissing him  _is_ nice, but you wanted to _touch_ him, to get your hands on every cord of muscle you could manage. You kiss him a moment longer, looking into his eyes when you pull back. His eyes are lidded, the green grown dark and heavy under his lashes, the firelight behind you dancing in the reflection. Your hand makes it’s way from the base of his skull to his shoulder, gently prying under the weight of the hide, pushing it off until you can smooth your palm against the meat of his shoulder. The other hand does the same, letting the suffocating cover of the fur fall to the floor before you sit back on your heels, observing the fit of the sweater under your hands.

Muriel’s biting his lip, almost gnawing on it, so you let your hands still and ask him, “Still okay?” He nods gently, so you let your fingers work over his shoulders when you ask, “Can I touch you more?”

His eyes close as he lets out a shaky breath, his voice coming out in a deep rumble that you can feel resonate in his chest through your hands, and it makes your toes curl. “Yes,” is the answer he gives you.

Now you’re the one biting their lip as you slide your hands down Muriel’s firm chest. You can’t help yourself, your hands occupy themselves with handfuls of his chest, groping ardently. He sighs at the first flex of your fingers, his thumbs rubbing slow circles against your hips. You try not to squeeze too hard, but there’s just so much to touch. You realize it’d be better to touch without the sweater in the way, so you slow your fingers and begin smoothing them down lower, across the abs you had been caught ogling earlier, stopping near his waistline. You pluck at the green wool there, pulling it up slowly so he has a chance to stop you. When he doesn’t, you slip a hand underneath the sweater, placing it directly against the overwarm skin of his stomach, and begin sliding it upwards.

The sweater comes up with it, exposing inch after inch of toned, tan skin. Your hand doesn’t stop until the wool is pushed up to his armpits. His face is flushed now, and he’s averting his eyes, giving you pause. You lean back a little, “Is it too much?”

He shakes his head no, pulling a hand away from your hip to bring it near his face, almost covering his mouth. It muffles his voice but you can hear him when he admits, “No, it’s fine. It’s just, I’m not used to… this.” He lowers his hand some and continues, “Plus your expression,” there’s a pause as he swallows and meets your eyes, “you look absolutely ravenous.”

A laugh sputters out of you and you lean back, bracing yourself with a hand on his shoulder. You’re still laughing when you speak, “Sorry, yeah, I guess I kind of am.” The giggles subside and you’re left feeling lighter, back warmed by the fire and a feast for the eyes in front of you. You lean back in, closing the distance between you, letting your words whisper across his lips, “Can I have you for dinner then?” Even to you, your grin feels wolfish.

The sound that he makes is strangled, and you let your fingers splay across his breasts while he answers, “It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t feed my guest.” You laugh again at that and his lips twitch upwards in a smile before he kisses you, chuckles turning into a pleased hum as his hands find their way up your sides. The touch is gentle and explorative, but you encourage it by pressing yourself into his hands while your own map out the ridges of scars on his chest.

You’re starting to lean more and more of your weight on him, pressing into him and feeling his skin under your hands, and it gives you an idea. You move a hand up to the junction of his shoulder again and give a directed push, leaning into it until he gets what you’re wanting. Muriel let’s himself lay back slowly, his grip pulling you over top of him until his shoulders are pressed into the ground. You break the kiss and prop yourself up with a hand on either side of his head, your hair falling along your face as you look down at him.

Having Muriel on his back like this straightens his posture, his shoulders back and his chest pushed up and out, and you can’t help the way his muscles make your mouth water. With a last look at his blushing face, you settle back between his powerful thighs, breaking his hold on your waist in the process. He looks at you with desire, and the heaving mass of his chest is too tempting to ignore. Your hands make their way across his flesh, each coming to cup one of his pecs, massaging the skin under your fingers. He sighs and the blush on his face darkens, eyes slipping closed. Curiously you take one of his nipples between thumb and forefinger and pinch. The reaction is immediate; a surprised grunt is stifled behind his teeth and his leg jumps beside you. That was… interesting.

You roll his nipple under your thumb and he jumps again, a shuddering breath falling from his lips before he brings a hand to cover his mouth. This time you pinch both of his nipples and he gasps behind his hand, the muscles of his thighs twitching around you. You think the answer is clear but you ask anyways, “Do you like that?” Your voice is breathless, an eager energy vibrating under your skin at having Muriel at your mercy like this.

His voice is strained, rougher around the edges than usual and rumbling deep in his chest under your hands when he answers you. You can hear him swallow before he speaks, “I do.” His eyes are almost pleading with you, so you play with his nipples more, biting your lip at his surprisingly soft sighs. You want to hear more. The urge consumes you.

You shift downwards, bringing your head level with your hands, and kiss his skin. The flavour of his skin and sweat meets your tongue as you lavish kisses across his chest in a path to his nipple. You kiss the bud softly before wrapping your lips around it and giving a tentative suck. A strangled grunt comes through Muriel’s nose and his free hand comes up to the back of your shoulder, fingers flexing fitfully against the urge to grab you with crushing force as you lathe attention on his nipple with your tongue. Your other hand continues pinching and pulling his free nipple, and you push your knee forward between his legs just as you bite down softly on the pinkened skin in your mouth. At the introduction of teeth his hips roll, rising against your thigh with a muffled gasp, and you can feel a hardness press against you through the fabric of his trousers.

Your head reels. You pull back, his nipple leaving your mouth with a wet pop, and stare into his face. His brows are scrunched and he’s not meeting your gaze, hand still firmly in place and blush solid on his features. Muriel’s eyes slide from where they were staring across the floor to meet yours in question, and as he raises his hand from his mouth, before he can ask why you stopped, you lean your weight on your thigh, pressing hard against his erection. His eyes clamp shut and a startled groan breaks from his lips, full and throaty. The sound sends a spark of arousal shooting into the gathering desire between your legs and you rub your thighs together, stimulating him more in the process. It brings more sounds spilling from his mouth, small and strangled but resonating with want, so you throw your leg out to straddle his broad thigh, grinding your hips down against him for more friction.

The hand on your shoulder slides down your body to grab the back of your thigh, pulling you against him as he rises to meet every roll of your hips. The pressure is intoxicating, but you want his hands on more of you, for him to let loose and really enjoy himself. You press yourself flush against his chest, gasping against his chin at the new angle on your nethers.  Finally, the hand over his mouth moves, resting awkwardly against your back like he’s unsure what he’s allowed to do with it. It’s cute, but he can do better.

“Muriel~,” you purr into the scruff on his chin and feel him give a full-body shudder in return. “You can touch me more, you know,” you tweak one of his nipples again and push yourself back against the hand near your ass, “I want you to.”

His response is a ragged “fuck”, before he adjusts his grip on your thigh, now properly grabbing your ass to pull you closer to him. His other hand grips the fabric of your shirt and pulls, raising it up until he can get his palm against the bare skin of your back. You hum encouragement, before rising to pull the garment completely off, baring the curve of your breasts to him. You don’t think his face could display any more naked want at this point.

Your heart pounds, but you take the hand at your back and guide it across the skin of your stomach, the rough calluses of his palms dragging tantalizingly against your flesh. It’s his turn to fondle your breasts, and he’s gentle about it, grabbing loosely and feeling the give under his fingers before smoothing his fingertips around your nipple in a circular motion. Sighs fall past your lips freely while you rock your hips against his thigh, and his other hand rises to your breast. You let yourself moan softly when his thumbs find your nipples, whispering, “More,” under your breath. That’s when Muriel moves.

His abs flex as he pulls himself upright, towering over you once again before claiming your lips. His hands keep working you over, wandering across your skin until they find their way down and back, each grasping a cheek of your ass while he kisses you passionately. You keen into his mouth, taking the chance to nip teasingly at his bottom lip. Your chest pushes flush against his when you take it further, moving your fingers to his jaw again as you swing your other leg out from between his thighs so you can straddle him properly. A groan shudders through him when you grind down, pressing against his erection wantonly. You lick at his lips, earning another groan, and you giggle at the sound. He’s almost too easy to tease.

Your mouth falls open around a moan when he uses his strong grip on your ass to pull you down as he rolls his hips up, sparking delicious friction in your nethers. A hand falls to his shoulder as your eyelids flutter, and you breathlessly encourage him between kisses. A few moments pass like this, but you want more,  _need_ more, so you pull back slightly and pant breathlessly, “Muriel,” you have to swallow a shallow moan, “I wanna go farther. Can we?”

Your only answer is heavy breathing for a second before you feel Muriel’s grip flex on your ass in contemplation. “If you’re sure,” his voice is thick with lust even as he holds himself back and you can’t help but fret at the insecure look that passes behind his eyes.

Your nails scratch under his jaw and you try to smile comfortingly, “Yeah. I’m certain.”

He’s blushing again, harder than he was before, and he can’t meet your eyes when he asks, “Should we move? To the bed, I mean.”

You laugh softly, “Yeah, I think that’d be better.” Muriel nods, and before you can extricate yourself from his lap, he wraps an arm securely around your waist. Your balance shifts as he stands, holding you cradled to his chest with one arm, and another startled laugh starts in your chest. You hold close to his shoulders while he carries you across the room, delighted by the idea of his quiet strength.

Muriel sets you gently onto the bed, letting you sink back comfortably onto the pile of furs and situate yourself on the pillows. He hovers awkwardly for a moment after finally pulling the sweater off over his head, hands left near the belt holding both his pants and the furs around his waist. You don’t understand his hesitation at first, but then you smile warmly at him, and you think it must be hard for him to stay standing with his blood so torn between rushing to his face and his cock, his blush is so fierce.

Thinking he’d be more comfortable with nudity if he wasn’t first, you kick your simple shoes off over the end of the bed and hook your thumbs into the waistline of your pants, expression gentle when you say, “Go ahead.” Then you pull down slowly, baring your thighs and legs before discarding your pants on the floor. Muriel clears his throat lightly, and he can’t stop looking at your body as he undoes his belt. You relax back into the pillows and rest your hands on your stomach while you watch his hands move about his waist.

The belt falls and the fur comes with it, exposing the hard line of a sizeable erection pressed against the front of his pants. You don’t get long to look before he turns his back and sits on the edge of the bed, taking off his boots and socks. Watching the flexing of his back is nice, and your legs subconsciously ease further apart. You’re biting your lips when he stands and shucks his pants in one go, exposing his extremely toned ass and legs to your hungry gaze.

That isn’t the only view you’re treated to as he turns, giving you a full view of his… surprisingly large dick. It’s a little bigger than you were prepared for, honestly. You don’t let it put you off and you quickly meet his eyes, and beckon him hither. Muriel’s lips are pressed in a hard line, but he obligingly climbs onto the bed, taking station over you. You let him settle in between your legs, and caress his arms as he leans down to kiss you again. He braces himself with one arm over your head, the other trailing his hand across your chest, and you hum pleasantly into the kiss.

He’s clearly shy, so you take mercy on him and don’t force him to lead. You press down against his shoulder and whisper against his lips, “Kiss my body.” There’s a small sound in the back of his throat, low and choked, before he sits on his heels and bends his broad body over you, peppering kisses down your neck. Your fingers thread through his wild hair, holding loosely to guide him to what you want. The rough skin of his hands roam up your sides, stopping to cup your breasts again while his soft kisses continue downwards at your gentle insistence. When his mouth meets your breast, you let your head fall back a moment and breathe a pleased sigh, his fingers gently playing with the nipple of your unoccupied breast.

“There you go,” your words are soft, encouraging him as his fingers move firmer across you and his lips meet the stiffened peak of your nipple. Muriel starts slow, obviously unsure, but he mimics what you had done to him earlier. His free hand has drifted down to your thigh, thumb rubbing soothing circles there while he lavishes your chest with affection. Your breath is coming shallower, and your sighs more frequent, further emboldening him.

When he nips gently with his teeth, you gasp, back arching to press yourself against him, and his hand on your thigh grips tighter. You raise your leg in his grip, rubbing the inside of your thigh against his hip, and let your hand in his hair urge him further down. His eyes flit up to search your face in question, but he lets himself be moved, the stubble on his chin tickling the sensitive skin of your stomach. You pull lightly to drag him off of you so he can see properly when you slide your free hand down, down to the apex between your legs to your sweltering sex and you ask with your voice laden in desire, “Will you kiss me here?”

Muriel swallows audibly, his pupils blown wide with lust when he meets your eyes. “If you want,” his voice is thick and heavy, a rumble resonating deep in his chest.

You scratch your nails lightly against his scalp and coo, “I do.”

He swallows again before lowering his eyes, following the line of your arm to the hair between your legs. He has to reposition, shuffle further down the bed on his knees, before he can get his face properly between your legs. You keep your fingers scratching against his scalp to soothe his nerves, and he brings both hands to the insides of your thighs, spreading them wide to make room for him. Now you’re blushing, having him so close to such an intimate area, but you raise your hips to give him better access. His tongue passes over his lips, wetting them before he looks to your face once more, then focusing on the heat and scent of your sex before him.

He tips forward delicately, pressing his lips to your mons before letting his tongue pass over your folds. You sigh in delight. He’s slow and deliberate in how he works his mouth on you, trying to find what works for you. When his tongue dips into your entrance, your thighs shake around his head, and when his lips find your clit you gasp sharply. His hands come in closer to his face, spreading you to his touch, letting his tongue pass over your nether lips unabated.

Muriel devotes himself to his task, working you until wetness coats his lips. For a moment he suckles on your clit, and that makes you grip harder at his hair. “There, like that,” you tell him, eager for him to do it again. He changes tack quickly, focusing his attention on your clit, and your hips writhe. Heat pools dangerously in your gut, and you’re breathing quickly, but you encourage him more. “That’s it. That’s what I want-!” gasps are spilling from you, and short moans follow them. Your toes curl as he lavishes affection over your sex, and you quietly demand, “More!”

Muriel happily obliges. The fingers he used to hold you open delve deeper, teasing your entrance. He sucks hard at your clit as one thick finger breaches you, pulling a moan from your chest. You lose yourself in the sensation for a minute, loving the feeling of him working you open, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. You urge him off you before you lose control completely, and steady your breathing as you look down at him between your legs.

His hair is pulled up and out of his face, his lidded eyes dark with lust and his lips parted around open-mouthed pants. His blush faded in his single-minded focus, the expression left behind making you hungrier. You curl a hand under his chin and tug softly at his hair, “Come here.”

He rises, surging over your body until he’s caging you in once again, an arm over your head steadying him. He kisses you, and you taste yourself on his lips. You let the hand in his hair fall to the curve of his shoulder, your free hand trailing your nails down his chest until you can reach his neglected erection. His eyes close and a groan works low in his throat when you touch it, fingers ghosting against the barest tip of the head straining past his foreskin. It’s wet with pre, and hot in your hand. You get the feeling teasing him right now might be more than he can handle, so you let your fingers grasp him gently, angling the tip towards yourself while you raise your hips.

Muriel’s breathing is labored when you lean up to kiss his jaw and ask, “Are you ready?”

You see a shiver works it’s way across his shoulders before he gives you a response. “As I’ll ever be.” You chuckle at that, and his lips quirk into a smile.

He presses his hips forward, cock guided by your hand, until he’s pressing against your entrance. He’s thick, thicker than you usually try to start with when you’re alone, but you’re wet and relaxed, stretching easily around him under the slight pressure. He gasps as his head enters you, and you hiss at the sensation. It doesn’t hurt, but like you said, he’s bigger than your usual. You pull your hand back up and place it on his free shoulder, letting him slide the rest of the way in on his own power.

He goes slow, exceedingly gentle, his passage smoothed by your wetness. You keen high in your throat when as much of him as you can fit is inside you. Your hands grip against his shoulders, steadying yourself against the stretch as he waits for you to adjust. A simple movement of your hips is all it takes to tell him you’re ready for more, and he settles all of his weight on one arm, the other retaking its place on your thigh. You can see his jaw clench around a groan as he starts pulling back just as slowly as he had entered you, and you loose a groan of your own at the sensation.

As Muriel starts his next press in, you let your eyelids flutter closed and your head relax back into the pillows. This pass is easier than the first, and you want to moan at the feeling of each inch massaging your walls as his cock delves inside you. You spend the next few moments like this, a slow rhythm of lovemaking sending electric sparks up your spine. An exceedingly slow rhythm. He’s biting his lip with the effort it takes to restrain himself to this slow pace. It’s very sweet of him, but you can’t get off to this.

You take the leg his hand is on and hook it around his hip, using it to pull him closer to you, faster and harder. Or you try, at least. He’s very sturdy, and your effort doesn’t net you much more than a confused look on his face. You change methods, instead using your leg around his hip as an anchor, and plant your other foot against the furs under you and roll your hips into him. Both of you moan at the sudden shift, although his is bitten off. Much better, but he doesn’t get the hint as well as you would have hoped. You meet his eyes, your own lidded and a pout heavy on your lips, “I want _more_.” You tried to let your frustration into your voice, but it comes out as needy instead. It works though, as Muriel groans desperately and adjusts his grip on your thigh, setting a steady increase to his pace.

Your breath hitches, the quicker pace scratching an itch deep inside you, but it isn’t enough. You whine, “I meant  _harder_ too, Muriel.”

His head drops to the pillow, his forehead above your shoulder, and you hear a strangled “ _shit_ ” before his hips snap forward into yours. The sudden motion pulls a moan from your throat, but it’s what you wanted and you have no intention of complaining.

It’s a slow ramp up into what could be called genuine fucking, the sounds of skin hitting skin loud against the backdrop of the crackling fire. Moans spill from your lips as you’re rocked under his body, your arm reaching across his back to pull scratches down his skin with your nails. You feel full each time he hilts his cock inside you, the pressure intoxicating, but you know you can’t be pushed over the edge with just this. Your other hand snakes down between your legs to where your bodies meet, and you rub two fingers against your clit. The extra sensation makes you arch your back and clench around him as you moan, and that makes his hips snap with particular force. You want more of that.

You let Muriel know, breathless encouragement and praise tumbling from your lips as he fucks you. You almost don’t hear his grunts through your own voice, but you can feel them rumble deep and baritone in his throat. Suddenly he balances his weight on his forehead, moving his arm to grasp your other thigh, then hoists both up and around his waist, changing the angle of his thrusts. It makes you cry out, high and winded, and you turn your head towards his to gasp into his beard, “That’s it!”

It doesn’t take long before his thrusts start getting frantic, and you rub your clit furiously, desperate to peak. You’re getting closer and closer, and you feel yourself clenching around him as he loses tempo and starts fucking you harder than before, jostling the entire bed frame against the wall. With your fingers working over your clit and the feeling of Muriel working so hard to get you close, you can’t stop the urge to gather your breath enough to tell him, “You’re doing good.” You hear his breath catch and his hips slam into yours with almost bruising force, so you continue, “So good for me.”

He makes a strangled noise, desperate and loud by your ear, and his hips set into a frenzy, fucking you until your eyes cross. It only takes a moment before the knot in your stomach snaps, your voice high and loud as you cum around him, walls squeezing and stroking him as you cry out your pleasure.

Muriel barely lasts longer than you do, cursing as he pulls out and starts working himself with his fist. A few frantic pumps have him spending himself onto your stomach as you come down from your high. He’s breathing heavy and loud through his nose, and you let your clean hand make it’s way into his hair, petting him as you coo into his ear, “Such a good boy.” He groans and a shudder runs through him at your words.

You pull your legs from around his hips, letting them fall slowly to the bed, your muscles tired and worn as he sits up. His face is still beaded in sweat when you look dreamily into his eyes. The blush comes back to his face when your eyes meet, and you laugh. His lips fall into a frown at that, and he frowns even harder at the mess left on your stomach. There’s a pool of his seed, thick and sticky on your belly, with ropes of it reaching the undersides of your breasts. Your own face pulls into a grimace at the sight.

Muriel moves and stands a little unsteadily on his feet, reaching to the floor at the side of the bed, retrieving apparently a sealed water skin before offering it to you. You take it gratefully, opening it and pouring the refreshing drink into your mouth. He leans back down, this time retrieving his discarded pants. You only have a moment to wonder why before he’s using the coarse fabric to clean the mess off your belly. You jump slightly at the touch, corking the flask before thanking him.

He looks to your face before returning to what he’s doing, “It’s my mess, technically. Don’t worry about it.”  He isn’t wrong, so you don’t argue.

Now that you’ve been sated, your mind is free to wander again, and now it’s wandered into what could happen next. You start to worry that maybe he’ll regret it immediately, that he’ll tell you to put your clothes on and leave in the night. He does neither of those, instead stepping towards a small chest at the foot of the bed, pulling out a fresh pair of trousers before putting them on. He looks to your pair on the floor and asks, “Do you want your pants?”

It’s a little comical, having that question asked so seriously. You answer without laughing though, “Ah, yes, if you’d please.” He hands them to you quietly and lets you dress without comment. He does speak once your breeches are on, however.

“You need to move.” Your face must’ve shown your fretful concern, because he immediately clarifies, “To get under the covers, I mean. It’s warmer that way.”

You laugh a little awkwardly at yourself as you scoot around to get under the layers of furs before moving yourself as close to the wall as you could, holding the blankets up in invitation. When he hesitates you say, “I don’t mind if you sleep with me. It’s your bed, y’know.”

After just another moment of indecision, he climbs under the covers with you, laying on his side to take up as little space as possible. Although with Muriel, ‘little’ isn’t exactly possible, apparently. You end up laying pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you after assuring him that it was fine.

Like that, you let yourself fall asleep in his embrace, the cold night air kept at bay by a crackling fire and the heat of Muriel’s body.


End file.
